Chapter 12: Unknown
The journey north out of the Blackwood was a slow, grinding torture of mud and mist. Each jostle of her horse sent a hot wire of pain lancing through Astrid’s side. The stitches pulled. The bruised ribs ached with a deep, persistent throb that made breathing an active effort. She rode in stubborn silence, her face set in a grim mask, refusing the litter Caius had quietly suggested.
He rode beside her, his own movements stiff. The cut on his temple had scabbed over, a dark line against his pallor. He watched the tree line, then her, then the tree line again. The usual commentary on the damp, the poor quality of the game trails, the inferior stitching on his now-ruined doublet was absent. His silence was worse.
After a day of this, as they made camp in a dripping pine copse, she finally snapped. “Would you stop hovering? I’m not going to shatter.”
He was cleaning his blade, a methodical swipe of the oilcloth. He didn’t look up. “I’m not hovering. I’m observing.”
“Observing what? My spectacular talent for wincing?”
“The color is coming back to your face. It was gray yesterday.” He set the blade down. “And you only gasp on the downhill slopes now. Progress.”
She scowled, poking at the stew Kael handed her. “I don’t gasp.”
“You do. It’s a very discreet, warrior-princess gasp. All in the nostrils.” A faint trace of his old smile appeared. “I’ve been cataloguing them. There’s the ‘I’ve been stabbed’ gasp, the ‘my pride is wounded’ gasp, and the ‘I hate this stew’ gasp.”
Despite herself, a snort escaped her. It hurt. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re alive.” His tone shifted, the lightness evaporating. “I’m allowed to note the mechanics of that. It was a near thing, Astrid.”
She looked away, into the fire. The flames reflected in his gauntlet, which she still wore. She hadn’t taken it off. It was a part of her kit now, a cold, practical reminder. “I know,” she said, her voice low.
On the fourth day, the character of the land changed. The skeletal, oppressive blackwoods gave way to tall, straight pines and stands of white-barked birch. The air lost its cloying damp and took on a clean, sharp bite. The ground firmed underfoot, rising into rolling, stone-studded hills. They were in the southern marches of Nordane. Home.
Astrid sat straighter in the saddle. The pain was still there, a constant companion, but it receded behind a surge of fierce, possessive recognition. This wind. This scent of pine and cold stone. This was hers.
A horn sounded from a ridgeline ahead—a long, low note that echoed through the hills. Not a warning. A greeting.
Caius’s hand went to the pommel of his sword. Rurik and Kael shifted, their hands casually moving closer to their weapons.
“Stand easy,” Astrid said, a real smile touching her lips for the first time in days. “That’s Bjorn’s horn. Sounds like a dying bear, doesn’t it?”
Over the ridge came a dozen riders, mounted on shaggy, thick-legged northern horses. They moved with a fluid unity her own mixed company lacked. At their head rode two men. The one on the left was mountain-broad, with a rust-red beard plaited with iron rings and arms that looked like they could throttle an auroch. Bjorn. Her eldest brother. The man beside him was leaner, sharper, with Astrid’s same piercing green eyes and a watchful stillness. Leif.
The two parties met in the shallow valley. The northerners fanned out, their eyes taking in the bedraggled state of Astrid’s company—the bandages, the torn surcoats, the air of exhausted relief.
Bjorn’s gaze swept over them and landed on Astrid. His fierce expression melted into one of raw concern. He swung off his horse in one heavy motion and was at her side before she could dismount.
“Little sister,” he rumbled, his hands coming up to her waist. He lifted her from the saddle as if she weighed nothing, setting her gently on her feet. The motion was effortlessly tender, completely at odds with his brutish appearance. He held her at arm’s length, his eyes scanning the blood-stained bandage visible beneath her open fur, the gauntlet, the cuts on her face. His concern hardened into something colder, a simmering anger looking for a target.
His eyes found Caius, who had dismounted and stood quietly by his horse.
“You,” Bjorn said, releasing Astrid and taking a single, deliberate step forward. The northerners behind him stiffened. “You were meant to be her shield. Her escort. What is this?” He gestured a massive hand at Astrid’s wounds, his voice dropping to a dangerous gravel. “You let a princess of our blood come home stitched together like a torn sail?”
The air went taut. Rurik took a half-step forward; Leif, still on his horse, made a subtle gesture, and two northern archers nocked arrows without raising their bows.
Caius didn’t flinch. He met Bjorn’s glare, his posture relaxed but his own expression stripped of all its customary charm. He looked, Astrid realized, like he had in the tunnel: focused, deadly serious.
“I didn’t let her do anything,” Caius said, his voice clear and carrying in the cold air. “She led the charge into a fortified mountain pass to root out a southern warlord. She broke his line, collapsed his fortress, and sent him running with his tail between his legs. The wounds are the receipts of that victory.”
Bjorn’s face darkened. “Pretty words. They don’t stop bleeding. You should have stopped her.”
“From doing her duty?” Caius’s eyebrow lifted. “From defending her people’s border? You might as well try to stop the winter wind. My job wasn’t to cage her. It was to watch her back.” He paused, his gaze flicking to Astrid, then back to her brother. “I did. It wasn’t enough to prevent this. I’ll bear that. But do not mistake the result for a lack of effort, or a lack of courage on her part. Or on mine.”
A thick silence followed. Leif swung down from his horse and moved to stand beside Bjorn, placing a restraining hand on his brother’s arm. His eyes, intelligent and assessing, scanned Caius—the muddy, ruined clothes, the weary set of his shoulders, the resoluteness in his light blue eyes.
“He followed her into the collapse, Bjorn,” Leif said softly, his voice like shale grinding. “Kael’s scout said he went in after her when the tunnel started to come down. Brought her out.”
Bjorn’s anger didn’t dissipate, but it banked, confused by this information. He looked from Caius back to Astrid, seeking confirmation.
She shrugged, the movement tight. “He’s not completely useless in a fight. His style is… florid. But he was there.”
Caius let out a slow breath, a white plume in the cold.
Bjorn grunted, the sound noncommittal. He turned back to Astrid, his attention fully on her again. “Father is beside himself. You were supposed to be observing, not bleeding.” He looked at the bandage. “Kael’s work?”
“It’ll hold.”
“It better. Come.” He moved to lift her again, to put her on his own horse.
“I can ride my own horse, you overgrown mule,” she batted his hands away, wincing.
“You look like death warmed over.”
“And you smell like a wet goat. I’m riding.”
A flicker of a smile cracked through Leif’s stern demeanor. He nodded to Caius. “Prince Caius. Your men look spent. We have a fortified steading an hour’s ride north. Hot food, solid walls. You can deliver your full report there.”
It was an offer, not a command. A slight, but significant, shift.
Caius inclined his head. “That would be welcome. Thank you.”
The company merged, the northerners forming a protective ring around them as they moved out. Astrid rode between her brothers, their familiar, bickering presence a palpable comfort. Bjorn kept glaring over his shoulder at Caius, who rode beside Rurik, deep in quiet conversation.
Leif leaned closer to Astrid, his voice for her alone. “Florid, huh?”
“All wrist and flair. You’d hate it.”
“He stood up to Bjorn. Didn’t bluster. Didn’t grovel.” Leif watched Caius thoughtfully. “Just stated the facts. That’s either very stupid or… not.”
“He’s not stupid,” Astrid said, too quickly. She felt Leif’s gaze sharpen on her. She focused on the path ahead. “He’s just persistent. And he gets lucky.”
“Hmm,” Leif murmured, a knowing sound that said he’d seen the way Caius’s eyes had lingered on her bandages, the protective angle of his body even when standing down her furious brother. “Luck is a skill. Let’s see if it holds at court. Father has questions. The southern ambassador arrived yesterday.”
A new kind of tension coiled in Astrid’s gut, one that had nothing to do with torn muscle. The fight in the pass was over. The fight in the hall was about to begin. She glanced back. Caius met her look, his expression unreadable. He gave a small, barely perceptible nod.
They rode on, the towers of the Steading of Ironhaven appearing as dark silhouettes against the steel-gray sky. Safety, rest, and a fresh battlefield awaited.
The high, timbered gates of Ironhaven swung inward, revealing a courtyard churned to muddy slurry by recent boots and hooves. The air here smelled of woodsmoke, dung, and roasting meat, a blunt, honest aroma that made Astrid’s shoulders drop a fraction. Home. Shouts echoed off the longhouse walls as stable hands ran forward to grab reins.
Before her boot even touched the ground, a figure erupted from the main hall’s doorway. King Sten of Nordane was a bear of a man, gone gray at the temples but with a breadth of shoulder that still strained his simple tunic. His eyes, the same fierce green as Astrid’s, found her instantly. He crossed the courtyard in strides that sent men scrambling out of his way.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t rebuke. He simply wrapped her in arms that felt like stone and iron, lifting her clean off the ground. The hug crushed the air from her lungs and sent a bright spark of pain flaring along her side. She didn’t care. She buried her face in the worn wool of his shoulder, the familiar scent of pine soap and forge-heat washing over her. All the tension, the fear, the constant sharp vigilance of the last week dissolved into that single, overwhelming pressure.
He set her down, his huge hands cradling her face, thumbs brushing the grit and dried blood from her cheek. His eyes scanned every cut, every bruise. “You look like you tried to fight a mountain,” he growled, his voice thick.
“The mountain lost,” she managed, her own voice cracking.
He laughed then, a sudden, booming sound that echoed in the yard. He pulled her back into a simpler, softer embrace, his hand cupping the back of her head. “Stubborn girl.” He released her, turning his gaze to the Eldorian party. His eyes settled on Caius, who stood quietly beside his travel-stained horse.
Caius offered a deep, respectful nod. “King Sten.”
Sten looked him up and down, taking in the mud-caked finery, the bandaged temple, the weary set of his posture that spoke of more than just a long ride. He looked at the gauntlet on Astrid’s hand, then back at Caius’s face. A long, assessing moment hung in the cold air.
Then, the king clapped his hands together once, a sound like a splitting log. “You’re alive. She’s alive. The bastard Varigon’s hole is collapsed.” He grinned, a fierce, toothy thing. “That’s a bleeding victory in my book. We celebrate!”
The courtyard erupted. The somber tension shattered under a wave of abrupt, roaring noise. Men who moments before had been grim sentinels now whooped, slapping each other on the back. Sten bellowed orders. “Ale! Heat the baths! Bring out the whole boar from the pit! This isn’t a funeral, you miserable lot, move!”
He looped a massive arm around Astrid’s shoulders, steering her toward the hall. “You,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Caius. “You look like you’ve been dragged through a bog backwards. Get your men settled. Then you’re in the hall. I want to hear how my daughter managed to get stabbed.”
The celebration was not like anything in Eldoria. There was no courtly music, no delicate courses presented with poetry. It was an avalanche of noise and sensation. The longhouse roared with firelight and shouting voices. Huge trenchers of bread laden with steaming, greasy boar meat were slapped onto rough tables. Towers of wooden tankards were brought forth, sloshing with dark, strong-smelling ale.
Caius, washed and in a clean borrowed tunic that was too broad in the shoulder, found himself shoved onto a bench between a red-faced blacksmith and Bjorn, who was already on his third tankard. A full one was slammed down in front of Caius. “Drink!” Bjorn commanded, foam speckling his beard. “You’re not a pageboy, are you?”
Astrid, across the fire pit, was holding court. Her braid was clean and re-done, her wounds freshly bound. She looked younger, the hardness from the pass softened by the firelight and the familiar, boisterous company. She was recounting the tunnel collapse, using a bread roll and a salt cellar to demonstrate Varigon’s position. Her people listened, their faces rapt.
“So the ceiling’s coming down, right?” she said, her voice carrying over the din. “And this one,” she jerked her thumb toward Caius, catching his eye, “decides now’s the perfect time for a dramatic entrance. No axe, no shield, just his exceptionally pretty hair and a determined look.”
The hall roared with laughter. Caius took a long swallow of the ale. It was bitter, potent, and left a warm trail down to his stomach. He met her gaze and gave a slight, theatrical bow from his seat.
“The hair helped,” he called back, over the laughter. “It distracted them. Strategic asset.”
More laughter. Leif, seated next to Astrid, leaned over and muttered something. She grinned, a real, unguarded grin Caius hadn’t seen before. It transformed her face.
King Sten stood, raising his own tankard. The room hushed, a respect that was instant and total. “To my daughter!” he roared. “Who brings southern lords to their knees and mountains down on their heads!” A thunderous cheer went up, tankards pounding on wood. “And to her escort,” Sten continued, his eyes finding Caius. “Who, I am told, has a talent for being in the wrong place at the right time, and the good sense to follow her into the dark. You are welcome here, Prince Caius of Eldoria. You drink with us tonight!”
It was an acceptance, rough-hewn and absolute. A dozen northerners immediately turned to clink their tankards against his, sloshing ale over his hand. Toasts were shouted in his general direction, some comprehensible, some not. A huge platter of meat was shoved under his nose. The noise was a physical thing.
Later, as the feast dissolved into singing and clumsy dancing, Caius found a moment of relative quiet near the great hearth. Astrid approached, holding two fresh tankards. She handed one to him. Her movements were slightly loose, the ale doing its work on her empty stomach and tired body.
“Overwhelming?” she asked, leaning against the stone beside him.
“A bit,” he admitted, taking the drink. “It’s less a celebration, more a carefully orchestrated siege on sobriety.”
She chuckled, the sound low and warm. “We don’t do things by halves.” She took a drink, watching her father arm-wrestle two of his hearth guards at once. “He’s not angry.”
“I see that.”
“He would have been, if I’d come back unscathed. He’d have thought I didn’t try hard enough.” She shook her head. “Your father… would he have thrown a feast?”
Caius considered it. “No. He’d have requested a meticulously written report, held a quiet supper where the victory was dissected like a dead songbird, and then awarded me a new ceremonial sash.” He took another swallow. “This is better.”
She looked at him, her green eyes reflecting the fire. “You stood up to Bjorn.”
“He was being an ass.”
“He’s always an ass. It’s his primary function.” A comfortable silence settled between them, filled by the raucous song starting up across the hall. “Thank you,” she said, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it over the din. “For what you said to him. For… in the tunnel.”
Before he could answer, Bjorn lurched over, throwing a heavy arm around Caius’s shoulders. “Diplomat!” he bellowed, ale-breath hot in Caius’s face. “You can talk pretty. Can you drink?”
Bjorn shoved his own near-empty tankard into Caius’s free hand. A roar of encouragement went up from the nearby tables. Astrid raised an eyebrow, a challenge in her smirk.
Caius looked at the two full tankards he now held, then at the expectant, grinning faces surrounding him. He saw King Sten watching from his high seat, a contemplative look in his eyes. This was the test, simpler and more dangerous than any in the Blackwood Pass.
He handed his original tankard to Astrid. “Hold this,” he said. He raised Bjorn’s vessel to his lips, and then his own, and began to drink. The foul, wonderful liquid burned its way down as the hall exploded in approving shouts. This was how the North celebrated. Not with sashes, but with swallowed pride, shared pain, and ale that tasted like a threat and a promise all at once. He drank until both tankards were empty, the last drops hitting his tongue as a cheer shook the rafters.